


Flimsy Fanfare

by CarakinWonder



Series: Three Word Prompts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:25:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarakinWonder/pseuds/CarakinWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another New Year's celebration and as per usual Sherlock has done something to upset John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flimsy Fanfare

**Author's Note:**

> From themanwiththeboxisking: flimsy, faint, fanfare.

The loud sounds of fireworks exploding and the raucous yells of half drunk people filtered in through the open window that overlooked Baker Street. John turned to the window slightly, his book trying it's hardest to fall from his fingers, and he smiled. “They seem to be having fun.” He said over his shoulder as his flatmate entered the room.

Sherlock sighed as he crossed the threshold and threw himself haphazardly onto the couch. “So much fanfare for such a simple thing as the overturning of one year into the next.” He grumbled, positioning himself so his back was lying on the seat of the couch and his legs were up above him and placed carefully against the wall, his feet just a little under his spray paint and bullet graffiti. 

John stuck a bookmark into his book and pulled his chair around to face Sherlock, setting the book on the table next to him once he was settled again. John leaned forward, his face hovering over Sherlock's, and stared at the other man's eyelids.

Sherlock opened his eyes to glare up at him from his upside down position. “You're not one for celebrations.” John observed. 

Sherlock opened his eyes like he was shocked and shook his head. “No, no I'm not. How did you ever guess that one?” He wondered, sarcasm overflowing in his voice like chemicals reacting in a test tube. 

John stared at Sherlock for a long moment, bright blue eyes staring into dark slate ones, before he abruptly pushed his chair back and stood up. “Come on.” John said, as he crossed the room and grabbed his coat from the hook on the wall. “We're going out.” 

The consulting detective flipped himself over and in one quick movement was on his feet. “I'm not going out there with those drunkards. What's the point?” He questioned, his voice bordering on a low growl. 

John shrugged his shoulders and shimmied his jacket on. “There is no point. It's just to have fun.” He said, opening the door and waving at Sherlock to move through it. 

A hand shot out and the door slammed closed. Sherlock's fingers almost seemed to dig into the dark wood of the door frame, his knuckles turning even whiter as he attempted to clench at the flat expanse. “We're not going out there.” Sherlock snapped. 

John narrowed his eyes as he glowered up at the taller man. “Well, I am.” John snapped, taking Sherlock's wrist in his hand, squeezing far harder than necessary, and moving Sherlock out of his way. John opened the door again and slipped out, moving hurriedly down the stairs, his footsteps making loud slaps in the still quiet of the flat. 

“You can stay here and sulk all you want. I'll go have fun by myself.” John told him sharply, angrily slamming the door as he left. 

\---

“John...” 

“John...John, wake up.” 

“John!” The yelp, coupled with a very harsh slap, brought John Watson back to life. 

He blinked several times, some of the blur coming out of his vision but it continued to wobble slightly. “What happened?” He questioned the voice, taking his throbbing head in his hand. He felt the rough scratch of medical gauze beneath his fingers, something he didn't know how to explain, and a splitting headache was shooting through his head, the pain radiating from his cranium down through his neck. 

“You fainted.” The voice said. John turned and saw Sherlock sitting next to him on the edge of a bed. His bed. He was back in 221B. But how? He had just been down on the street with the other New Year revelers with a beer in his hand.

“Well, he says fainted. More like blacked out. From what we could learn by asking around, you got far too drunk, tripped and fell, and knocked your head squarely on the cobblestones as you went down.” This was another voice. John turned towards it and squinted. 

There was Lestrade, his silver hair shining in the dim light coming through the window. “You called Lestrade?” John grumbled, turning back to Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked away from him, glancing at the ground. “I went out to look for you around one or so but I couldn't find you. Around four o'clock I started to get worried.” He told him, his words one long huff under his breath.

John understood what Sherlock was saying though. There was a number of things that could have happened to John. 

There were always people after Sherlock and for some reason or other they always seemed to come through him to get at the consulting detective. No matter how much Sherlock said that he didn't care, John could see, for him at least, that he did. 

He reached out and grabbed one of Sherlock's hands, gently squeezing the long, thin fingers. “I'm sorry.” He whispered. Sherlock didn't move or look up but John saw the barely imperceptible twitch in his shoulders. 

John let go and faced Lestrade. “Sorry for being such a bother, Greg. I'm sure this is not what you wanted to do at...” He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. “five forty-two in the morning.” 

Lestrade chuckled and pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. “The videos I have on here make all of this worth it. When you weren't yelling some of the worst profanities I've ever heard at the doctor that sewed you up, you were flopping about like a flimsy, cloth doll. You'll be hearing about this for months!” He chuckled loudly, turning on his heel and walking out of John's bedroom. “But yes, I'm going home for the possibility of a good morning's sleep.” 

The two men waited until they heard the door to their flat close, until they turned to each other again. “Thank you for coming and getting me.” John said to Sherlock.

The consulting detective merely tilted his head down in what John took as a nod. “You didn't have to let him video tape me.” John continued as he lifted his hand back to his head, running his fingers down his bandage. 

The noise that escaped Sherlock's lips could only be classified as a chimeric combination of a scoff and a giggle. Sherlock lifted himself off of John's bed and went to the door. “You need to get some sleep, John.” He said, tapping his fingers on the door frame. 

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. 

Sherlock glared back at him. “Go to sleep, John.” He ordered. John rolled his eyes and rolled over, pulling his sheets up over him. “Fine.” He grumbled.

Sherlock switched the lamp on the bedside table off and opened the door. “Yes I did, John. You made me worry. Letting Lestrade spread those videos all over New Scotland Yard is the only way I can see to get back at you for that.” He told him as he closed the door.

John gritted his teeth and cursed the insufferable man under his breath.


End file.
